Saving Sherlock Holmes
by tapeandblades
Summary: In which Sherlock is struggling desperately and he finds solace in Molly Hooper. Angst, Fluff, Hurt&Comfort, and major Sherlolly. This fic is also completed on wattpad, my username is @missdeathfrisbee. Enjoy and Review!
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N The completed story is also on wattpad, and I will try and upload as much as I possibly can at once but you'll have to be a little patient. This is my first posted fic on this site, so enjoy! Oh and leave a review if you wish.) **

**Chapter 1- Broken**

Molly hadn't seen Sherlock since that day.

That day, which had been a nasty blow to Molly, but had completely snapped Sherlock.

She'd seen him break.

Then she'd seen him stand up.

And walk away.

That day.

The day that John died.

_Knock knock._

Silence.

_Knock knock knock._

"Sherlock! For Christs sake let me in or I'll break down the door!"

Silence.

Lestrade, who had called Sherlock an hour ago to no avail, prepared to run at the door. He'd just taken the first step when the door was opened, and Sherlock stood, leaning against the door frame.

The once tall man had shrunk in on himself. He wore his suit, but he didn't seem to fill it out at all. His posture had become slumped, but what really made him seem small was that there was no light in his eyes; the knowledge that had once made him as high as the clouds had flickered, and died.

Lestrade wondered how long it had been since Sherlock had eaten something. Or slept.

"Go away. I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not leaving Sherlock, until you show me that you are ok." Lestrade had no idea if Sherlock was safe from himself, whether he was on the verge of... In fact, he didn't want to think about it.

"I'm ok."

"No, you're not. I'm coming in." He pushes past him, and surprisingly, Sherlock didn't protest. Whether it was because he really did need a friend, or because he simply didn't have the energy, Lestrade doesn't know. It was most likely the latter.

He stands in the middle of the room. Sherlock doesn't move from the door.

The room was unkept, with papers and rubbish everywhere. Ashes were falling out of the fireplace, and the fridge door was wide open, with little if any edible food in it. Lestrade, sighs, looks up at Sherlock, and takes off his coat.

"Mrs Hudson home?"

"No."

"When will she be back?"

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Are you going to sit down?"

"I'm fine here, thanks."

"Sit down."

Sherlock obeys.

"How have you been keeping up?" Lestrade hangs his coat up and sits on the chair across from him. Almost as soon as he sits down, Sherlock gives him a pained look.

"Please... could you not sit there." Lestrade is confused. "It's Johns."

"Oh! I'm sorry." He springs up and brings the desk chair over.

"I'm fine." Sherlock says, answering Lestrade's previous question. "Absolutely fine."

"Right." He says, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock doesn't meet his gaze.

"When was the last time you ate?" Sherlock turns his head away, staring straight at the fireplace.

"Fine. You're coming with me." Lestrade gets up, grabs his coat, and chucks the other one at Sherlock. "Come on."

It wasn't Lestrade's idea to come to Sherlock. It was Mycrofts. His brother had felt that if he were to comfort Sherlock, it wouldn't end well. So he recruited the Inspector.

Molly had offered, but then had thought better of it. She wouldn't know what to say.

"Where are we going?" He still sat on the sofa. Staring at the ashes in the fireplace.

"Lunch. You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. And if you don't come, I will handcuff you to me and drag you down to the diner."

Lestrade sits back in his chair, having finished his omelette, and eyes Sherlock's untouched sandwich.

"Eat."

"I don't like pickles."

"Why did you order a cheese and pickle sandwich then?" He clenches his teeth.

"I don't know."

Lestrade softens his gaze. "Look. I know you're going through a hard time. But it will get better. Eventually." He waves over the waitress. "Why don't we order you something you do like and you can eat it back in your apartment?"

"Ok." He picks another sandwich, and they both get up to leave. Lestrade pays, and they wander back over to Bakers Street. He walks slowly, looking down at his feet. Not only had he lost John, but the skip in his step.

His coat barely moved as he walked, and his coat collar was turned down. He now longer walked with a purpose, and it hurt Lestrade to look at him.

"I have some new cases down at the station. Interested?"

"No. I'm sorry but, it's too soon." He smiles. "Anyway. None of your people work with me." Lestrade sees something in his eyes as he thinks about old times, but it dies as Sherlock remembers the one person who did work with him.

He didn't want to remember. He wanted to delete the memories. But he just couldn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2- Bleeding**

Since lunch, Sherlock had retreated into his apartment again.

For another few days, no one saw anything of him. Lestrade knew for a fact that there was no food in his fridge, so he offered to drag him down to a cafe again.

"No," Mycroft had said, defeated. "I don't think that will help."

Eventually, one person got a bit tired of all the standing around.

Molly had just been let in by Mrs Hudson when both heard a smashing sound. They look at each other, terrified.

"Sherlock!" Molly rushes upstairs, tripping on her way to the door. She throws herself against it, but she is too small, and it doesn't budge.

"Sherlock, let me in!" She hits the door again. "What are you doing in there? Let me in Sherlock, please!" She runs at the door for the third time. The bolt gives way.

She falls through the door and lands in a heap in front of it. "Sherlock..." she says, groaning, and she looks up to see him bent down in front of the window.

There isn't much glass, but the window is broken. Something had been thrown out of it. "Sherlock... What are you doing?"

A choking sound escapes from the huddled figure, and then a small sob. Molly rushes over to him, and sees him picking up the pieces of glass from the floor. He is bleeding.

"Oh Sherlock," Molly said, taking the glass from his shaking hands. He has tear-stained cheeks and red eyes, and she feels a pang in her chest upon seeing how empty they are. He doesn't look at her, but tears hang onto his eyelashes, threatening to fall onto his lip.

"You're bleeding. Here, let me take a look at that." She takes his hand into her own, and taking some tweezers from her bag, pulls out the shard of glass stuck in it.

Leading him over to the table, she sits him down and fills a bowl up with water. She presses on the gash in his hand with a wet cloth.

"What did you throw out the window? Was it something of Johns?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and another tear escapes from below his eyelid. He stays this way for a while, and Molly sighs.

"Don't worry about it. Hang on-" She begins to pull up his sleeve, but she stops. She stares at his arm.

"Sherlock..." She breathes, pulling up the other sleeve. Long, deep gashes run up and down his arms. He turns his head away from her.

Molly can feel herself starting to cry. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat. _Oh Sherlock, my poor, beautiful Sherlock..._

She picks up the cloth again and hold it to the inflamed cuts. Her lips are pursed, for she is afraid she might say something she will regret.

When she is finished, she finds some bandages and swathes his arms and hand in the them. He just stares at her, while she ties the bandage up.

"I'm... I'm sorry." He chokes out. "I truly am."

"For what?" She says, her eyes watching his. He blinks at her.

"You're not... upset?" He says, looking down at his hands. He sniffs, wrapping his arms around himself.

"No. No, of course not. Why would I be?" She lifts his face. "You're hurting. I understand that. But it will get better. Not... for a long time. And it will never go away. But it will get better." She smiles at him. "Come on. You look like you need to sleep."

She helps him stand and takes him to his bedroom. With his shirt and trousers on, he lowers himself onto the bed, suddenly exhausted.

"I... don't remember when I last slept." He says as Molly pulls the covers over him. "What if... What if I dream about..." He shakes his head.

"Don't worry. I won't let you. I'll stay right here." She sits on the chair by the bed.

For a while, he just stares at her. But then eventually he drifts off.

A shot rings through the air.

"JOHN!" He screams as he catches him in his arms. "John, no, please..." Sherlock presses on the wound in his chest, but it's no use. He looks up to see the shooter drop the gun and run.

He sits there with John's head in his lap. "Someone will come John, it'll be fine." John looks up at him, his breathing shallow.

"No..." He says, "It won't."

Sherlock shakes his head, tears falling and landing on John's jacket. "Don't say that, someone will come." He pulls his jacket off and lays it over John. "I know they will."

John watches as Sherlock strokes his cheek. There's so much pain... _It'll be over soon._

"Don't leave me John, please. Keep holding on." He grips on to his hand. John smiles at him.

"Remember..." He whispers, and Sherlock leans in closer. "... remember that you are amazing. To me."

Sherlock hears him take his last breath.

He wakes with a start. He's been crying.

A figure stands over him and shushes him, soothing him as he lies back down on the pillow. "It's ok, I'm here." Molly holds his hand until he's sleeping again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3- Breakfast**

Sherlock opens his eyes and sees Molly sleeping in the chair.

He doesn't move so as not to wake her. He lies there, just staring at the ceiling- which suits him fine. He isn't quite ready to get up yet.

He starts to wonder how much time had passed when he hears Molly stir. She stretches out her arms, yawns, and almost falls off the chair.

"Oh! Gosh..." She grips the arms to steady herself, and then sees Sherlock staring at her. "Did I wake you? I'm so sorry." She holds her hands out apologetically, and then yawns again.

"You didn't wake me. I've been awake for a while." Sherlock turns his head back to face the ceiling. Molly eyes him curiously.

"Did you sleep alright? Other than... the slight bump we had in the night." She scratches the back of her neck. She wasn't sure what he had dreamt about, but it had shaken him so much so that she could see him shudder slightly now.

"It was... ok." He blinks. "I don't remember what I dreamt after that."

She stretches out her legs and stands. "Do you mind... if I have a shower?"

"No, of course not. Go ahead."

Molly rushes into the bathroom, planning to have the quickest shower possible so that she wouldn't have to leave Sherlock alone for too long.

Sherlock continued to lie there, listening to the pattering of the water against the shower floor. He listened until all he could hear was that sound, a drumbeat, vibrating through him. It felt good to not think of anything else for a while, but then the shower was turned off, and the memories came rushing back.

He slowly eases himself upright. Movement had become tiring, his limbs weighed down by grief and lack of energy. As Molly walks back into the room, Sherlock smiles weakly at her.

"I think... I think I might have a shower."

She grins, brushing her hair with her fingers. "Good! That's good." She wears the same clothes as the day before; she hadn't planned to stay the night. "Hang on- I'll help you."

She helps Sherlock up and takes him to the bathroom. Sitting him down on the edge of the bath, she slowly unwraps his bandages and throws them away. His cuts look better now they have been cleaned, and they have scabbed over and begun to heal. She finds him a towel and hangs it on the radiator, before turning the shower on and allowing it to warm up.

"I'll just be outside." She says, turning to leave. Sherlock stands, preparing to get undressed, when Molly notices how thin he is. She gulps, smiles, and leaves him to himself.

Sherlock pulls of his shirt, shivering against the cold air. After he's finished getting undressed (which took more effort than he had thought) he steps under the hot water. It runs over his back, pounding on his head and eventually he finds himself sitting on the bottom of the bath, letting the sound of the water take over his mind.

"Do you have any eggs? Or bread?" Molly asks Mrs Hudson, who is pulling various things out of her fridge. "I'm sorry to ask, but he has nothing, and I don't want to go too far and buy anything. I will later though." She smiles apologetically.

"I understand, dear." She says, handing Molly half a dozen eggs and some sliced bread. "Is he doing any better?"

"I think he might be. I'm not sure." She bites her lip. "He had a full nights sleep last night."

"Thank god- I swear, he hasn't slept in weeks. Butter?" Mrs Hudson holds out the butter dish.

"Oh yes, thank you." She says, taking it. "I'll bring it back down soon, I promise." She kisses Mrs Hudson on the cheek. "I'll look after him." She adds, holding one of her hands while balancing the food in the other.

Once she's back upstairs, she turns on the stove. Cracking the eggs and whisking them, she starts to make breakfast.

Sherlock washes the soap out of his hair, turns the shower off, and wraps a towel around himself. He sinks back down on the edge of the bath, losing the energy or the will to continue.

After a while, he notices it. The sizzling of the pan, the smell of food. He wasn't particularly hungry, or at least he didn't think so. He knew that he didn't want to be hungry.

After he had gotten dressed (in a white shirt untucked over some black trousers) he walked over to investigate what Molly was cooking. She flips an omelette in the pan- plain, and almost cooked- and without looking at Sherlock, smiles.

"Hungry?"

Sherlock stares at her. "You're asking me if I want to eat? If I'm hungry?"

She turns to face him. "Um... yes?" He looks confused. "I'm guessing Lestrade just told you to eat."

"Basically."

"Well, you don't have to eat if you don't want to." She turns back to the pan, scooping up the omelette and putting it on some buttered toast. "I've made you some, but you don't have to eat it."

She places it in front of him. She sits down across from him with her own plate, but doesn't start. Despite the fact he wasn't looking at her at all, Molly felt nervous- this was the first proper meal she had ever had with Sherlock Holmes.

She tucked into her omelette, letting Sherlock decide whether he was going to start or not. She had almost finished when he picked up his fork.

She didn't look at him (she didn't want to pressurise him) but she watches him from the corner of her eye. He uses the fork to take the toast out from beneath the omelette, and slowly chews on it.

She suppresses a smile.

"I'm sorry. Wasn't sure if I could stomach the omelette." He stops, pondering how that might have sounded. "It does look good, though."

"Thank you." She says, smiling. "Enjoying the toast?"

He nods.

"Good." She stands up. "Eat as much as you like. There's more bread in the cupboard, and Mrs Hudson is downstairs." She grabs her bag.

"Where are you going?" He looks panicked. He feels a bit better when she's around- he didn't want her to go.

"Don't worry, I'll be back," she says, grabbing her jacket, "I've just got to pick up some clothes." She smiles at him. "Oh, and some food. You know, in case you do want some omelette later."

He smiles slightly. "Maybe." he says.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4- Beautiful**

Molly had told her boss that she needed the next week off to support a friend. He hadn't been particularly willing at first, but when she told him it was Sherlock Holmes, he let her. He'd seen the news- everyone had.

She picked up her things and some shopping, and before she got back in the car she called Sherlock. He picked up on the third ring.

"Hello? Molly?"

"Hi, just wanted to check if you were ok." She begins to pack the shopping into the boot.

"Um, yes. When will you be back?" He sounded lonely. Molly closes the boot.

"I'll be about half an hour. Is that alright?"

"Yes of course. See you later."

Molly starts the car and heads over to Mycroft's.

"Hello Molly. Do sit down." She sits across from Mycroft, who picks up a teapot. "Tea?"

"No, I'm fine thanks." She smiles. "Must be getting back soon."

"So..." Mycroft sits back in his chair. "How is he?"

"He's doing better Mycroft. He had a full nights sleep, and some toast this morning." She looks down and fiddles with the hem on her jumper. "But... he's been cutting his wrists. And he's lost lots of weight. He's very depressed."

Mycroft sighs. He taps the edge of his teacup, thinking to himself. "Are you staying with him?"

"Yes. I am. I... I don't know if... Is that ok?" Molly bites her lip. Mycroft smiles at her.

"Of course. Anyway, he seems to have improved since you visited yesterday. It's probably for the best."

Molly grins, slightly excited that she gets to look after Sherlock. She feels a little guilty about that part, but she knows that she can help him. She is sure of it.

"Well, I just came here to keep you updated. I told Sherlock I'd be back in half an hour, so I better..." She motions to the door. He nods.

"Ok Molly. Thank you for coming." He stands to see her out. "... Good luck."

Molly knocks on the door, shopping bags dangling from her arms. "Sherlock? It's me."

Sherlock opens the door and, seeing the shopping bags, takes them from her. "Oh! You don't have to-"

He takes them over to the kitchen and dumps them on the table. Wincing, he rubs his wrists.

"I brought some more bandages." She pulls up his sleeve, checking his arms. "From the hospital. I'll just go get them- they're in my bag."

While Molly goes back down to her car to get her overnight bag, Sherlock starts to unload the shopping. Molly walks back in.

"You seem... better." She grabs one of the bags and helps him. "Bit more active."

When they had finished, she sat him down on the sofa and started wrapping fresh bandages round his wrists. "This should help."

He looks at her curiously. Her honey brown hair hangs over her face, and he cheeks are slightly flushed from the cold. She looks strangley delicate in this light.

"You look... beautiful."

Molly's head snaps up. Sherlock blushes slightly, pulling his hands away. "Sorry."

"Oh, no, don't... Thank you." She smiles at him, her ears turning a cute pink. "That's... very lovely of you."

Sherlock can't meet her gaze. Instead he stares at the fireplace while she continues to bandage his arm.

"Do you feel like some lunch?" She gets up, a little shaky on her feet. Sherlock Holmes just called her _beautiful._ She shakes out her hands and makes her way to the kitchen, hiding a smile. _He thinks I'm beautiful._

"Um, yes, why not." He pulls his knees up beneath him. "Lunch would be nice."

Molly gets out some bread and begins to butter it. She can feel Sherlock's gaze burning into the back of her neck, and suppresses a shiver. She turns around to grab some crisps from the cupboard, and sees him watching her with his gorgeous blue eyes. _If he keeps looking at me like this how on earth am I going to last an entire week?_

She clears her throat and fills the sandwiches with cheese and tomato. She puts the plates on the table and sits down. Sherlock crosses the room in a second and sits across from her.

Molly tries not to look at Sherlock. She can feel her heart throwing itself against her chest, and she stares at her sandwich a little too hard than necessary.

"Are you planning on eating that, or stabbing it?" Sherlock stares at her, and she blushes.

"I, um, was gonna eat it." She picks it up and takes a large mouthful. She almost chokes on it, but she just looks up and grins at him apologetically.

_God, this is embarassing._

Sherlock takes a bite of his own sandwich. He takes a while chewing it, but it's not long before he's almost finished it. He leaves the crisps, and offers them to Molly.

She pops a few in her mouth, and then scrapes the rest into the bin. He's staring at her again. She turns to face him, smiling.

"There anything you want to do?" She says, a little too enthusiastically. He shrugs his shoulders.

"I don't really know. I could..." He gestures around the room. "Clear up a bit. I assume you'll be sleeping on the sofa."

"Yes, but I can do that-"

Sherlock is already rushing around the room, gathering his papers and clothes and taking them to his bedroom. She smiles. He's trying to make and effort.

They continue to tidy the room. She bends to pick something up, and when she stands he turns and walks into her.

"Oh!" She trips and collapses into his chest. He holds her, shakily, and sets her back on her feet.

"I- I'm sorry," she stutters, heat rising in her cheeks. She looks down at his pale hand- it hasn't moved from her arm.

The electricity pulsating through her is exhilirating.

She quickly pulls away from him, mumbling an apology and turning away. She doesn't see, but Sherlock looks at her with warmth in his eyes.

"What I said earlier. You are..." He gulps slightly.

She turns to face him. A wave of happiness runs through when she feels the warmth in his gaze, the fire.

There's a knock on the door, and the flame is extinguished.

_Beautiful, _she thinks, her smile fading. _That's what he was going to say._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5- Beginning**

Sherlock carefully watches the barrel of the gun, feeling its aim burning through his chest.

"I will shoot," a man says, placing his finger on the trigger. "I'm not gonna lie to you. I will."

The man has a dark scarf covering his face, and a cap pulled down to shadow his eyes. His hands are shaking slightly, so he places the other hand on the gun to steady it. _Six foot. Mid-teens. So, not a man at all then._

"There's no need to be rash," Sherlock says, not moving an inch, "We can talk about this."

"Talk about what?" He says, thrusting his gun forward slightly in an attempt to intimidate him. _Graffiti artist. Parents divorced. Trouble at home- doesn't like mother's new boyfriend. _

"Easy, easy," Sherlock says, closing his eyes. "You don't have to resort to this. Think about it. You'll be a murderer. Don't you think you've got enough trouble at home already?"

"How the hell do you know what's going on at home!" He screams, taking a step forward, his grip now steady. "I will shoot you!"

Sherlock can hear John breathing rapidly behind him. He takes a step forward so that he's next to Sherlock.

"John..." He says, tilting his head in John's direction. _Get back. Back behind me. _

"Why?" John says, hands clenched. "Why shoot us?"

They stand in a darkened alley. He had them cornered- there was no escape.

"Hand me your cash, drop your gun, and no one gets hurt."

"Hang on, just-" Sherlock holds up his hand, and the teen presses the trigger.

And John throws himself in front of him.

He wakes up screaming John's name.

He lies there, shaking in a cold sweat, eyes closed. He hears Molly open the door and rush in, but he keeps them clenched shut. She puts her hands on his shoulders, gently shaking him and saying his name, but he still refuses to open them.

"Sherlock, it's ok now. Look at me."

He shakes his head, tears falling over his lips and nose.

"Sherlock, come on. It's just me, Molly. I'm here, open your eyes."

He slowly looks up to her. His eyes look a pale blue in the moonlight, wet with tears. He finally lets out a sob, and he leans into her while she soothes him.

"Shh, it's ok now. I'm here."

A while passes before they are just holding each other in silence. Thinking he's asleep again, Molly pulls her arms away and turns to leave.

"Wait," his voice is small, but his gaze sharp. "Could you... stay?"

"What?"

"You don't have to, I just..." He turns away from her, staring at the wall. He feels the covers move slightly, and turns to see Molly climbing into bed with him. Nervously, she pulls the covers up over her shoulders and lies there. Awkwardly.

Sherlock closes his eyes and shifts the tiniest bit closer, searching for her hand under the sheets and gripping onto it. She tenses slightly, but then relaxes and falls asleep.

Sherlock watches as Molly breathes. In the night, she had rolled over and snuggled up to him, her head resting on his shoulder. He wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable about it or not.

Light shone through the blinds, highlighting her scruffy hair. Her cheek was slightly red from leaning on her hand, and her collarbone peeked out from her top. Her whole face was warm and light, calmed by sleep, and her mouth pulled up in a slight smile.

She was perfect.

Sherlock slowly shifted her head off his shoulder and left her to sleep. He creeped out of the room, going to the kitchen, getting out the eggs and turning on the stove.

Molly yawns and reaches out her arms. They hit an empty bed. She opens her eyes.

Sitting up, she looks at the empty matress, confused. Then she smells breakfast. And something burning.

Wandering down the corridor, she sees Sherlock manically waving a tea towel around, coughing. Smoke clouds the kitchen.

Gagging, Molly waves her arms around on the way to the window. Throwing in open, she leans out and breathes in the fresh air.

The smoke disperses.

Molly turns to look at him, smirking. He stares back.

"I burnt the toast."

"I can see that." She says, laughing. He holds out a plate to her.

"I made you an omelette though." She takes it from him. "I'm sure it isn't as good as yours though."

"Oh, we'll see." She says, sitting at the table. Her fringe falls over her eyes as she takes a bite. He sucks in his breath.

She nods, taking another bite. "It good. Yes," she says, smiling at him.

"It's terrible, isn't it." It wasn't a question. He knew. _Damn his deduction skills. It's like he's a fricking lie detector or something. _

"It's fine, Sherlock. But... leave me to breakfast from now on."

"You're too good at this," Molly says, "I don't know what move to make."

Sherlock looks at her expectantly. She sighs.

"Fine." She moves her rook forward a few spaces. He swiftly moves his queen over to replace her rook, plucking it from the board and placing it on his side of the table.

"Check."

"See!" She throws her hands up in the air. "I told you so. I'm rubbish at this game."

He smirks. "Maybe I can teach you."

"There's no point. I'm hopeless." She moves her a king a space to the left. "That any good?"

She watches as his knight slips into the kings path. "Checkmate." He hides a smile.

Molly cooks spaghetti for dinner. He almost finishes it.

He watches her wash up the plates, her hands moving the scrubbing brush in a circular motion. He takes one from her, and they wash up side by side.

"Thank you. For everything." Sherlock watches as her cheeks turn rosy.

"It's no problem." She stares hard at the pan she's washing. He stops her hands with his own.

"No, really." She turns to face him, spraying dishwater all over the floor. Neither of them notice. "Thank you."

He stares at her intensely, and she gets lost in the galaxy in his eyes. He slowly turns her wrist in his hand, feeling for her pulse. Rapid. Her breathing shallow. As they stare into each others eyes, both notice the others pupils widening. They lean into each other, and his breath catches on her lips.

"Molly," he breathes, pulling away slightly, "I can't-"

"Shhh," she says, and then presses her lips against his.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6- Blue**

Molly feels his hands in her hair, as they breathe in each others existences.

Their lips parting and their eyes closed, Molly runs her hands down Sherlock's chest, gripping at his shirt as he leans into her, his sweet breath tickling the back of her throat. She's on the tip of her toes but she feels on top of the world, both their hands slipping on the wet kitchen counter.

Suddenly he pulls away, a hand clawing at his face. She watches him dubiously, her heart hammering on her rib cage, partly because of their exhilirating kiss and partly because she didn't know what she had done wrong.

"Sherlock," she gasps, reaching for him. He shakes his head, stumbling backwards. "Sherlock!" He turns and rushes from the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Molly holds her head in her hands, tears in her eyes. She falls to the floor and sits in the puddle of dishwater, sobbing.

Sherlock bursts through some iron gates and smacks into some mourners. Apologising and picking up some of their dropped flowers, he runs between the graves, heading for one particularly new headstone.

Laying the blue sweet williams infront of the marble, Sherlock gets on his knees, shaking.

"John," he says, his voice catching. He traces his name with his index finger, his touch tender as if he was still alive. He doesn't say anything more for a while; he just sits with his best friend, watching the snow fall.

Molly picks herself up, her clothes now as soaked as her tear-stained face.

"I told you," she says to the air, "I told you... You IDIOT!" She kicks the chair, screaming the most colourful curse words she can think of. Once her vocabularly had run out, she just resorted to screaming.

"Why would he love you? He never has, and he never will! How could you be so stupid!" Her voice shakes with her hands. She runs them through her hair, trying to steady them.

"He's Sherlock Holmes. A sociopath. Just..." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Just stop fooling yourself."

Sherlock sees the sky getting lighter. He wonders why those mourners were here so late- when it hits him. It was Christmas Eve.

He hadn't even thought to buy Molly a present. Why hadn't she told him? _Of course, _he thinks, _she must have thought I had enough on my mind. _

A sob escapes from between his chattering teeth. "Merry Christmas John." He almost leans forward to hug the headstone, but then thinks better of it. He didn't want to have to accept that cold marble was the only warmth and affection he was to recieve in return.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, "I failed you. I'm so so sorry, John." Sherlock bows his head. "I'm sorry, but, I... I don't love being Sherlock Holmes. You said that I loved it. I don't."

He moves the blue sweet williams so that they are propped up against the grave.

"I love being Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

Molly is starting to panic. It's 8:00 AM already and Sherlock hadn't come back. She hadn't been able to sleep. Once she had gotten over her disappointing kiss she had taken to pacing the living room. She'd tried ringing his phone, but it had been turned off.

Molly didn't know what to do. She'd cared for him in every way in the last few days, but at the apartment. She had no clue where he'd gone, or how to bring him back. _For God's sake, it's Christmas!_

Getting out her phone, she dialed a number.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade, I need your help. He's missing."

"I kissed Molly."

Sherlock hears the morning birds around him, as he now sits cross legged in front of the grave. "It just... happened. I know that I shouldn't have. Not just after losing... you."

He looks down at his shaking hands, goosebumps peeking out from under his cuffs. It was absolutely freezing. A thin layer of frost coated the ground, and snow flakes fell from the heavens, like broken angels.

"It's wrong. I... shouldn't feel this way about her. It's just the grief isn't it?" He tucks his hands inside his sleeves. "And if it's just the grief, then I can't use her like that."

He rubs his hands together, a feeble attempt to warm up. He can feel the cold creeping up on him- he's been out here for too long. His movements are getting slower, and his thoughts are drifting. "But, John," he says, lying down so that he rests above him. "I think... I might love her."

Both lie there, both sleeping. But one's alive, and one's dead.

"What happened?" Lestrade opens the door for Molly and she climbs into the cruiser. "Why did he leave?"

Molly goes red. "Um, we had a fall out." She lies.

"You fell out? Molly, you better be telling the truth, because it might help us find him."

She sighs. Ashamed of herself, she looks out of the windsheild. "We might... well, I... kissed him." She speaks in a small voice, shrinking in on herself. She watches as Lestrade sighs, looking down at the wheel of the car. He starts the ignition, feeling the hum of the engine.

"Oh, Molly," he says, looking up at her, a sad look in his eye. She can feel tears coming, a lump in her throat. Then something dawns on him. "Wait. I think I know where he is."

The snow has started coming down faster now. Lestrade and Molly run through the graveyard, searching for the figure they know will be sitting at John's grave.

As they approach it, they see a very pale Sherlock lying in front of the marble. "Oh God," Lestrade says, and both quicken their pace.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" Lestrade shakes him, and Molly checks his pulse. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"No, it's hypothermia. He's been out here too long, he's unconcious." She lifts his head onto her lap. "Help me get him to the car."

"But he isn't waking up," Lestrade says, lifting Sherlock's arms over his shoulders.

"He just needs to warm up. But we musn't warm him up too fast," both lift him up, but Lestrade bares most the weight. He's very light- too light.

They carry him down to the car, Sherlock's head lulling against Lestrade's chest. He breaths evenly, his chest rising and falling. Molly holds his hand, monitoring his pulse.

In the car, Sherlock lay out in the back, his head resting on Molly's lap. Hot air blasts through a vent in the front. His blue lips begin to pinken, and he shifts, moaning slightly.

Lestrade glances at him from the rearview mirror. "He coming to?"

"Soon, probably," Molly says, stroking his unruly curls. He's shivering slightly.

"You have any blankets in the back?"

"Only ones for shock. Will that do?"

Molly reaches over and pulls one out, spreading it over him. "Shh..." She says, running her hands up and down his back, trying to warm him up. "It's ok now."

Sherlock stirs, groaning. It's dark when he opens his eyes, but he can see Molly sitting in the chair opposite him. He's back in bed, and the radiator has been turned up. There's a hot water bottle by his feet.

"Molly," his voice is hoarse. Her head snaps up, and she smiles at him. The smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Hi there," she says, bringing the chair closer, "Welcome back."

He coughs, trying to clear his throat. "What happened?" He still sounds like he smokes three packs a day.

"It was below zero out there, you passed out." She looks at him, clearly upset. "Don't do that again. Please Sherlock. You had us all so worried."

"I'm sorry."

"I mean at least have your phone on! Or tell us where you're going!"

"I'm sorry Molly, I really am. About everything."

"Or leave a note or- What?"

"I'm sorry about everything. My reaction. I didn't mean it, I swear." He closes his eyes, coughing again. Molly looks at him, eyes wide.

"Um... It's fine. I should have known really that... that you didn't... like me." She looks down at her hands, her already small frame suddenly smaller. Sherlock opens his eyes, staring at her.

"Molly, I'm serious. I didn't mean it." He tries to sit up, failing miserably. "I do like you. I really do. I just don't think I was ready for that kind of affection yet." She looks up at him, her eyes glistening. "You are beautiful Molly." He reaches for her hand, and, taking it in his, he kisses it gently. "I do like you."

She smiles, but tears are forming in her eyes. "Sherlock, you don't have to-"

"I do. And I think... I think I am ready now."

She lets out a half sob, half laugh. She gets up, climbing into bed with him, resting her head on his shoulder. He shivers. "God, it's cold."

She snuggles closer, wrapping her arms around him. "That better?"

"Of course." He says, kissing her forehead. "Merry Christmas Molly."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7- Brighter**

"Molly."

Molly wakes to a deep, and slightly croaky voice, her head going up and down with the lifting of his chest and her heart beating along with his. Sherlock gently shakes her, whispering her name. She groans, shifting her arms from beneath her and stretching them out over his slender body.

"Morning Molly."

She mumbles something along the lines of 'Morning Sherlock' and then closes her eyes again.

"Molly. Molly!" he shakes her again, and she moans in protest. "It's eleven. Lestrade was gonna come check on us at eleven thirty."

"So? I'm tired! Lestrade can go-" Sherlock cuts her off by placing his pale hand over her mouth. "Swerlch-" he shushes her, listening. Both hear the faint footsteps outside, slowly increasing in volume.

"Damn it!" Molly rolls off of the bed and stumbles to the chair, throwing herself on it and picking up a magazine, just in time for Mrs Hudson to knock lightly and then peek her head round the door.

Molly looks up and smiles at her, putting a finger to her lips and pointing at Sherlock. He lies, eyes closed, breathing evenly. Mrs Hudson nods and quietly places two cups of tea on the bedside table, before tiptoeing back to the door and closing it behind her.

Sherlock opens one eye, and, seeing that the coast is clear, sits up. He winks at Molly.

"You're pretty good at acting you know," he says, taking one of the tea cups from the table and looking down at it. Black, two sugars- Mrs Hudson always remembers.

"You too. That was some pretty skilful sleeping."

Sherlock laughs, holding the second tea cup out to her. Molly glances at his wrists as he leans over- no new cuts. And the old ones are almost healed. Molly suddenly feels lighter, happy that she has helped Sherlock so much. But there was one other thing she was happy about.

Sherlock had tugged her into bed with him and wrapped his arms around her after they had talked last night. She fell asleep with his warm breath on her neck- and he had slept free of nightmares for the first time since... then.

Everything seemed brighter as they sat, sipping at their teas. Mrs Hudson hadn't quite got Molly's right, but she didn't care- she was too busy swimming in the blue of his eyes.

"So..." Molly says, her empty cup chinking with his as she set it down. "What do you want to do today?"

Sherlock smiles crookedly, thinking. "I'm going to have a shower... and then I'm going to visit John's grave."

She looks up at him, her smile gone. "Sherlock, are you sure-"

"I've decided I'm going to visit him everyday. And..." He looks down, clearly struggling with what he's going to say next. "And I'd like you to come with me." Molly stares at him, confused. "If you want," he adds quickly, smiling weakly.

"Oh, of course," she says, shaking her head. "Of course I want to. It's just..." She takes his hand, running her thumb up and down his palm. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes. I do." He grips onto her hand, staring hard at their entwined fingers. "I think it's better if I do this. Talk to him. Rather than hide in here all day." She comes over, pulling him into her arms and holding him there. He rests his head on her shoulder, sinking into her, his curls brushing her ear. "I need... I need to come to terms with this. And to do that... I need you."

She rubs his back, and they sit there for a while, bodies pressed against each other, heat and heartbeats passing between them. It's a while before she kisses his head, gets up for a shower and prepares to go to the graveyard.

They pass Lestrade on their way to the church, and he throws his arms up in confusion. "Oi!" he says, making them turn around to face him. "Where are you going? I was just on my way to-"

"We're going to see John, Lestrade." Molly says, smiling at him. She reaches out for Sherlock's hand.

"Sorry, but you're not invited." Sherlock says, taking her hand and turning them around so they can continue down the street. Lestrade stands there, mouth open, a million questions forming in his mind.

They push open the gates and turn to each other, hand in hand. Molly's cheeks are pink from the cold, and there are snowflakes caught in her hair. Sherlock brushes one off, before looking at her with panic in his eyes.

"It's ok," she says, stroking his cheek, "All we have to do is say hello. That's all."

"I don't know if I can," he says, not sure where to look. He was losing it, and he didn't want her to see. "Last time... well, you kno-"

Molly stretches up and plants her lips on his. He leans into the kiss, and she wraps her arms around his neck. They don't kiss with a passion, fingers in each others hair and tongues darting in and out. They kiss with a need, standing perfectly still and drinking each other in. The pull away, lips open, Molly's hands clinging onto his scarf.

"That better?" She says breathlessly, her lips slightly bruised from the pressure of his mouth on hers.

"Yes," he whispers, "very much so." He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. They continue on their journey to his headstone, her woolly green gloves a bright contrast againt his black leather ones.

The blue sweet williams have died in the frost, so Molly reaches over and picks some snow drops from a nearby grave. She hands them to Sherlock, who places them against the headstone, their pale petals creating an eerily beautiful picture against the deep black marble.

Sherlock stands there, mouth half open, waiting for something to come out. Nothing does. Molly watches his struggle.

"Hello John," she says, squeezing his hand. "It's just Sherlock and I. Happy Boxing Day."

"Yes, he says, "Happy Boxing Day." _Wish you were here,_ he wants to add, but he can already feel his voice breaking.

Molly watches as Sherlock clenches his mouth shut, and realises this is probably as much as he can take. She decides to finish for him. "We miss you John. We really do." Sherlock nods, the ice in his eyes melting into glistening tears. Molly reaches up and wipes them away, placing a gentle kiss on each cheek. She wraps her arm around his waist and let's him lean on her, her head tucked neatly under his.

She couldn't help but notice how perfectly they fit together.

Neither could he.

Molly heats up some soup for lunch, with toasted bread. They eat it in silence, but Sherlock finds himself mopping the rest of it up with his toast. Molly smiles, pleased to see that he's hungry again.

They then switched on a movie and snuggled on the couch. The opening credits had only just begun before Sherlock sprung up, making Molly jump.

"What are you-"

"Wait," he says, crossing over to the fire and taking a lighter from the mantelpiece. The wood goes up in flames. Sherlock turns back to Molly, and sees the reflection of the flames dancing and jumping in her bright eyes.

Once he's back on the sofa, he brings her up onto his lap and let's her sit in his arms. The movie plays on, but Molly drifts asleep half way through. Sherlock takes to watching her sleep, her eyelids twitching every now and then._ I wonder what she's dreaming about,_ he thinks, _or if she's dreaming at all._

It's dark when Molly finally wakes up, and she can feel Sherlock's arms around her. She was dreaming of him, and they were out having dinner. He was happy- she remembered him laughing.

She closes her eyes again quickly, before Sherlock notices she's awake. She wants to get back to her dream, to watching him smile at her across a melting candle, and laughing as he spoons spaghetti into her mouth.

She lies in his arms for a while before giving up. "Sherlock?" She says, and he jumps slightly.

"Oh! You're awake. I thought you might be- you're breathing pattern changed."

Molly smiles, thinking that if she'd woken up in any other mans arms that wouldn't have been the greeting she'd have received. But then again, that's why she loved him.

"Of course you did." She changes her position so that she is facing him. "Sherlock... do you... want to get dinner?"

"Sure, there's some pasta in the cupboard but-"

"No, I meant go out. Go out for dinner."

He looks confused. He seems to think for a while, his eyes now more of a green as they flit about, not sure where to rest. Then he looks up at her, his lips tugged upwards at the corners. "Why of course, Molly Hooper. Where do you wish to go?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8- Brisket**

Sherlock hid his shaking hands behind his back as he walked over to the restaurant. It was a small pub-like place- he'd never been there before, Molly had picked it out- and he could smell lamb and gravy as laughter wafted through the open windows.

When Molly had asked him out to dinner, his immediate answer was no. He didn't say this out loud, instead he bit his tongue and reconsidered. He still wanted to say no when he quite charmingly complied, but this was for Molly, not him.

Molly, who had dressed herself in a flattering purple blouse and a black pencil skirt, compliments Sherlock perfectly as he adjusts the collar on his own purple shirt. She pulls one of his hands out from behind him and squeezes it reassuringly. He looks down at her, putting on his best smile, and they walk inside.

"Table for two, please," he says to the waitress that greets them at the door. _Late to work. Has been crying; boyfriend dumped her recently- this morning. _As she hands them a menu he leans over and mutters "He wasn't worth your time," in her ear, winking and looping his arm through Molly's, leaving her to catch flies in her gaping mouth.

_God, I have to admit I am enjoying this a little._

"So, what do you think I should have?" Molly purses her lips, eyeing the menu. "The brisket looks good."

"Yes it does. Smells good too." Without looking up from the menu, Sherlock motions in the direction of the kitchen. Molly takes in a deep breath, eyes closed.

"That's the brisket? How can you te-" Molly stops herself short, shaking her head. _He's Sherlock Holmes, remember. He could probably tell whether they are steaming broccoli or carrots._

"Well, I'm going for the brisket then," She says, putting her menu down on her plate. "You?"

"I'll have whatever you're having." He says, smiling at her. He hadn't even been reading the menu- just staring at it, blankly. "Wine?"

"That would be lovely." She smiles at him, knowing that he is out of his comfort zone. "What do you think?"

"I... I'm not really a wine person. All these dates and labels mean nothing to me."

"Neither." She holds one of his hands and nods her head. "Ok, close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes!" He obeys. Molly closes hers. "Take my hand and place it anywhere on the wine list."

Sherlock lifts her hand, her delicate fingers brushing the menu in front of him. She bites her lip as he gently places her index finger somewhere in the middle. The both open they're eyes.

"That one," he says, calling over the waitor.

"That one it is." Molly blushes a warm pink as he lets go of her hand. He can't take his eyes of her; their stormy grey pinning her to the chair. Somehow, his butterflies ease when he watches her- and only her.

He orders their food in his deep, smooth tone and the waitor rushes off in the direction of the kitchen. It's Molly's turn to stare at him.

"Sherlock..." She says, choosing her words carefully as not to ruin the evening, "Um... Why did you take me to dinner?" He stares at her blankly. "It's just... you've never taken me all the times I've asked... before."

He looks down at his empty placemat, biting down on the inside of his lip. He stays that way for a few minutes, thinking about what to say. In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure why he'd never taken interest in Molly before. He didn't quite understand how he'd been oblivious to her beauty, to the extraordinary comfort he felt in her prescence. Finally, he looks up at her, knowing exactly what he's going to say.

"I used to always say to John that I'm married to my work. When I used to work alone, I was so absorbed in my solitude and deductions that I failed to notice anyone who offered their company. When I met John, I became addicted to a new sort of solitude- only wanting to be with the one person who had ever seemingly accepted me. What I didn't know, is that there had been someone there all along." He smiles at her, a slight sadness in his eyes. "I let John in because he put his foot in the door. That is the only way anyone was to get inside my head, and he did it. Now he's gone..." he gulps, stays silent for a while, before composing himself. "Now he's gone, and all my guards are down, I've suddenly realised how many people had been trying to get in from the start. But, due to my intimidating intellect and my natural coldness, no one had been brave enough to stick their foot in the door. Until now." He squeezes her hand beneath the table. "You came in just in time. You saved me Molly Hooper. And now I just can't bear to let you go."

Molly looks up at him, a small smile playing on her lips and a pool forming in her eyes. She's about to say something in reply when they are interrupted by a well-dressed waitor and two mouth-watering dishes.

"Brisket for the lady," he says, placing the china plate in front of her, "And brisket for her date." _Gap year university student. Going to study philosophy. Gay- has a crush on the other waitor, judging by the way he looks at him._

When he had left, Molly turns back to Sherlock. He's already cutting into the beef, which isn't quite as tender as steak but just the right density. "Sherlock... I just can't believe this." She smiles, her eyes bright. "I can't believe you just said that, you know, opened up and... stuff." She picks up her own knife and fork. "And you opened up... to me."

"Why wouldn't I?" He says, having swallowed his first mouthful. He doesn't eat anymore, just looks at her, oblivious that someone as wonderful as Molly Hooper could have insecurities.

"Well, because I'm just... me."

Sherlock almost drops his fork. "Just you? You're not just you, Molly Hooper. You are the woman who dissects bodies. The woman who unconditionally cares for anyone who crosses her path. The woman who has saved me- twice."

"Twice?"

He ignores her comment. "You are the woman who I not only need... but might even love."

Molly almost falls off her chair. She grips onto the table, replaying what he's just said in her head, almost convincing herself she imagined it. But she didn't, did she? She didn't...

"Did you just say...?"

"Yes."

"And you really mean...?"

"Yes."

She stares at him for a while.

"But you definitely really mean...?"

"Yes, Molly." he says, getting a little annoyed now. _Why did she doubt him? Was it something he said?_

She suddenly laughs, rather loudly. Well, loud for Molly. Sherlock stares at her, his face a picture of utter confusion. He watches as she chuckles to herself, weeping at some sort of hidden joke. She takes a deep breath and calms herself, fanning her face. Sherlock has absolutely no idea what to do or say. He just sits there as she prods her broccoli, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth and his green beans dripping gravy as they hang off the end of it.

After a while, Molly looks at him, laughter still bubbling away at her lips. But unlike his previous assumption, this was laughter of happiness, of relief; not of hilarity or spite. She dabs at her eyes with a napkin.

"Well thank God for that," she manages, dropping the napkin back on her lap. "Because I am definitely in love with you Sherlock Holmes, and I wasn't sure how long I was going to have to keep that to myself."

They finish their brisket, laughing together as Sherlock deduces every diner in the room. He pours her more wine, and lifts the glass to her lips as she giggles and gulps it down. They only order one dessert, as well as only using one spoon to eat it between them. She controls the cutlery this time, spooning homemade blackberry crumble into his mouth. A little tipsy, she gets some custard on her nose, and he reaches over and kisses it off. They looked stupidly happy, the past few days and events no longer riddling their minds.

"That was wonderful Sherlock. Thank you."

He switches the light on in 221B, and closes the door behind him. She has her arm wrapped around his, and they gaze into each others eyes. Her breath catches as he leans in slightly. Slowly, she reaches over and turns the light back off.

Pulling him in further by his shirt, their lips collide, her hands running over his chest before wrapping themselves around his neck. He grips her waist and twists so she's against the wall, and she leans her head against it as he kisses her over and over, along her jawline and down her neck. Unsure of what to do next, she makes the next move, fiddling with his collar button and working her way down his shirt. Their kisses becoming deeper, he carries her in his arms down the corridor, and they let the night take them in it's starry arms as they lie between the bedsheets.

A smile plays on Molly's face as she watches Sherlock sleep, his lips parted and his eyelashes brushing his cheek. One of his curls is hooked around his ear, and his pale skin is almost glowing where it catches the light from the window.

She doesn't move. She barely breathes. She just watches, watches the beautiful man that lies next to her as he simply exists.

And she finally realises. He does exist. He is real.

And he chose her.


	9. Chapter 9

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>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"span style="text-decoration: underline;"strongChapter 9- Blissstrong/span/p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"strong(AN I don't like to write inappropriate scenes, but I apologise in advance for inappropriateness here. Sorry guys! :'D)/strong/p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"emLast night.em/p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"It's all Sherlock can think about.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"emLast night.em/p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"He's not sure how he feels about it. He strokes Molly's hair while she sleeps, a soft smile and a strange sense of bliss painted on her face. She seems to have enjoyed it, but Sherlock is confused. He'd always been known as the virgin, and well... now he wasn't.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"It hadn't been dirty and ridiculous like he'd expected. It had been nice. Well... yes. Nice.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"I guess he doesn't know how he feels because he got lost in it all. It was dark, and they were a little drunk, and one thing just led to another until they were tangled in the bedsheets, Molly asleep and Sherlock lying awake, utterly bewildered about the whole affair. emIs that what it's like every time?em/p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly shifts in her sleep, groaning and stretching out her arms. He holds her tighter to his chest, kissing her forehead. Without opening her eyes, she lifts her head and smiles.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Hi."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Morning." Sherlock brushes an eyelash from her cheek. Molly leans into his palm, opening her eyes. They look a deep orange in this light, illuminated by the gentle glow from the window. As she shifts her head, they flash between chocolate and peach, the kinds of colours that make you feel warm inside.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Without saying another word, Molly pulls away and turns so she is facing Sherlock, the sheets loosely wrapped around her bare body. She leans over and kisses him, their lips passing over one another and their eyes fluttering. Forgetting his previous worries, Sherlock leans in, climbing onto his knees and holding her head in his hands, kissing deeper. White cotton surrounds them, wrapped around their embracing bodies as they both get lost in the others perfection- again.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"*p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"This time when Mrs Hudson walks in, both parties are unprepared.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Good God!" Mrs Hudson shrieks, dropping the tea. Sherlock yanks up the sheets so that it covers both of them, while Molly slowly dies from embarassment. The pink colour goes from her cheeks to her ears, while she mumbles some sort of explanation that gets lost between her teeth.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Mrs Hudson, if you wouldn't mind some privacy please." Mrs Hudson just stares, open mouth quivering. "Mrs Hudson. Some privacy," Sherlock says through gritted teeth. "Now."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"She attempts to scoop up some of the broken china before she scurries out of the room, muttering something along the lines of "Molly? I thought he was gay!" and "Wait 'til Angelo hears about this."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Sherlock chuckles, before turning to Molly, who is gripping onto the fabric with both hands like it's the answer to world peace. She stares straight ahead, the colour draining from her face. "Oh God. Oh God oh God." She looks at Sherlock frantically. "What are we gonna do? Mrs Hudson can't keep her mouth shut!"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"He reaches over and takes her hand. "So? Does it matter if everyone knows?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""She caught us in bed together, doing... doing...!" Molly waves her hands around, trying to portray some sort of message. "Well... no, you're right. It doesn't matter. It's fine. It's not like it's some sort of rarity or anything, it could just as easily have happened to someone else."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"It's Sherlock's turn to look concerned. "Oh. Well, no. It actually hasn't happened, to, um... anyone else."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly stares at him. "Wait. So you mean to say...?" He nods. "Last night... Was your first time?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Yes."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly shakes her head. "Really? I thought... you know, you being you..." She almost slaps herself. "No! No, I don't mean that I thought you had loads of... No, I just meant because you're you, and you're gorgeous and..." She puts her head in her hands. "God, I'm not making any sense."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""I know what you're saying. Don't worry." He pulls her into his arms, and she leans against his chest. "And to be honest, I don't think anyone will believe Mrs Hudson anyway."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Why's that?" Molly says looking up at him, slightly hurt at what he might be implying.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Everyone was placing bets on when I was going to come out of the closet." Molly laughs. "I'm afraid they'll have to be very disappointed."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly jumps up, almost knocking Sherlock off the bed. "Indeed." She wraps a sheet around herself. "Race you to the shower."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"She stumbles out the door, Sherlock close behind her. He catches her up and swings her into his arms, laughing as they leave trodden sheets in the hall on their way to the bathroom.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"*p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Sherlock, over the past week, had gained a considerable amount of weight and was almost on his way to a healthier size. He would always be naturally slim, but as Molly wrapped her arms around his waist she felt sure that she wouldn't snap him in half. And this comforted her.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Sherlock, I need to cook this! You're in the way!" Molly stirs some mushrooms and tomatoes in a pan. She reaches over to pour some whisked eggs in, but she spills some of it as Sherlock kisses her neck from behind, making her giggle. "Stop it!"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""I'm sorry Miss Hooper, but I just can't help myself. You are, quite frankly, delicious." His head leans on her shoulder. "And who needs eggs when I've got you?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"She pulls her hand away from his side so that she can hold the pan steady while she flips the omelette. "You need eggs, because you need to eat. Now stop it before I get egg on the floor!"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Sherlock kisses her on the cheek before moving away and taking out some bread. He pops it in the toaster, and is about to turn the dial when Molly rushes over and stops him.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Sorry, but you burnt it last time." She sets the dial to two minutes, before continuing to cook the eggs. Sherlock smirks at her, and she can feel his gaze on her while she cooks. She turns to him, raising her eyebrows.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Please don't look at me like that."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Like what?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Like that. You're distracting me."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""I'm distracting you?" He puts his elbow on the counter, and props his head up on his hand, smiling at her with his smoldering eyes. She groans.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Stop it. I can't take it."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Can't take what?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""You! You're too..." She almost knocks the omelette out of the pan while she motions wildly. Sherlock tries to hold back a laugh, turning swiftly to catch the toast as it springs out of the toaster. Molly stares at him. "How did you...?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Oh, you know." He winks. Molly almost drops her spatula.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""DID YOU JUST WINK AT ME?" She puts her hands on her head, astonished. "DID SHERLOCK HOLMES JUST WINK AT ME?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"He can't hold back the laughter this time. It fills the room- and it doesn't sound forced, or half-hearted. It sounds absolutely, genuinely happy.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly dishes the omelette up with the toast and they both eat quickly, discussing their plans for the day. They were to visit John's grave, and then Sherlock was going to take Molly to Admiralty Arches. She didn't know why, but apparently there was something there that a lot of people don't spot.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"The snow had been brief this year. It was already clearing when they arrived at the graveyard, and the grass underneath, although stiff with frost, was a bright green. They placed some tulips on the grave this time which they had bought in advance, sweeping aside the dead snow drops.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Both sat by the grave, and, although Molly did most the talking, they had a conversation with their deceased friend. Sherlock seemed more at ease this time. He shed a few tears but talked to John as if he stood before him, about cases they'd solved and jokes they'd made. But mostly, Sherlock talked about his new girlfriend, Molly.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""She is amazing John. It was rather stupid of me not to notice before, actually. She's helped me so much, been there through everything. I don't think I would have made it without her. And I really love her John. I really do."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly, at some point in his speech about her, threw her arms around him, knocking him on his side. They lay on the thin layer of snow, smiling at each other, before pecking each other on the lips. She pulls him back up, tears in her eyes.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""I love you too," she says, and they kiss, John's marble grave looking on at the happy couple.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"*p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Why are you taking me to the arches again?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Sherlock pulls her along beside him, weaving his way through the mass of people that wander through the streets of London. "All will be explained," he says, stopping at the pavement edge. "Now, we need to get our way through the cars to the middle of the road."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""What!?" Molly leans back, staring at him. "Are you trying to kill us?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""No. We just need to walk inbetween the cars to the arches. Perfectly safe."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Perfectly sa-?" She isn't given a chance to finish before he yanks her out into the busy road. With Molly shrieking behind him, he runs to the centre, escaping two oncoming cars and making it just in time.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Jesus Sherlock!" Molly looks at the cars rushing either side of her. "What are we doing?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Patience, Molly." Sherlock smiles at her. "All in good time."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"They reach Admiralty Arches by walking inbetween the speeding vehicles, and Sherlock stands beneath them on a small ledge of pavement. "They were designed by Aston Webb, and the arches and the buildings themselves were made in memory of Queen Victoria. She was Kind Edward the... seventh's? Yes, Kind Edward the Seventh's mother, but he did not live to see their completion." He ignores Molly's confused face and continues. "They were completed in 1912. However, something was altered about them in 1997. Can you see it?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly sighs and looks up, her eyes scanning the inner walls of the arches. She's about to protest when she sees something; something brass, protruding from the wall.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""What the..." Molly squints at the object. "Is that-"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""A nose? Quite so," Sherlock says, grinning at her. "Well done."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""But who would put a nose in an arch wall?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Rick Buckley. He put it there as part of a campaign against the 'Big Brother' society." He raises his arm, pointing at it. "It's about seven feet up, and was placed there so that it would be around waist height when soldiers came in on horses. Some people say the nose is there to honor Duke of Wellington. He was said to have a rather large nose."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly stares at him, mouth open. "And you know this because...?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""I secretly investigated it in 1997. It was something to occupy myself. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite as exciting as I had originally thought." He goes red. "I had hoped it was some kind of message to the people in the government offices, one of criminal intent. I was quite... whimsical back then."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Molly smiles up at him. "Well," she says, pursing her lips, "I actually find it rather... sexy."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Oh?"p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Oh yes. Very sexy indeed." She stands up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his. He places his hand under her chin, his touch gentle and nervous, as if he's afraid he might break her. Several onlookers stick their noses up at this show of public affection, but others smile as they pass, seeing it as an act of love rather than rebellion. Some teenagers even wolf whistle. Sherlock sticks his finger up in their direction, without having to open his eyes.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"They break apart, noses red and eyes shining from the cold air. He presses his forehead to hers, his arms around her waist.p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;""Bliss..." Molly breathes, the corners of her mouth lifting in content. "Absolute bliss."p  
>p style="margin: 20px 0px 20px 0px;"Sherlock opens his eyes, fixing them on hers. "I agree," he whispers, "You are every bliss one could hope for."p  
>div 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10- Begging**

On the morning of New Years Eve, Molly wakes to an empty bed.

She rolls over and lies on his side for a while, the matress still warm. "Sherlock?" She mumbles, her voice thick with sleep. Now Molly can't be blamed for the fact she didn't jump up immediately, demanding his whereabouts and rushing to his side. Sherlock had been improving- more than improving. He'd been thriving, and so she just assumed he was up making tea.

She was wrong.

As she passed the bathroom on the way to the kitchen, she noticed it was locked. Still, she assumed he was having a shower, and so continued to walk over to the kettle, heating some water and leaning against the work top, steam spillng around her from the opening of the lid. It was only when she began to pour it into his mug that she realised there was no water running.

Hot water dripped from the counters as she ran back to the bathroom door, slamming her knuckles against it. "Sherlock!" She screams, rattling the door handle. There is nothing but an empty silence on the other side of the walls. Mentally slapping herself, she steadies her shaking hands so that she can twist the lock from the outside. "Come on," she says, tears springing to her eyes. She says his name over and over, holding it between gritted teeth.

When the door finally swings open, she stares at the hunched figure, who sits with his legs sprawled underneath him and his wrists thrown out in front of him. And they are red. A deep crimson that blossoms on his pale skin, dripping onto the bathroom tiles.

"No," Molly breathes, the tears spilling over as he lifts his head. Their eyes lock together for a split second, before his blue pull away from her brown. She sinks down next to him, trying to grab his wrists. He goes to pull them away, but she is having none of it. Gripping both of them in her hands, she wraps his gushing veins in a nearby towel, pressing hard. His face is drained of colour as he looks at her, an apology teetering on his lips.

Molly is so angry. _How could he do this to himself? To me? _"You've cut too deep," she says, not meeting his gaze. "We're going to have to go to the hospital."

"No," he says, forcing her to look at him. "They'll keep me in the psych ward for weeks. They won't let me leave until they can say I'm mentally stable!"

"Which you're not!" Molly shouts, tightening her grip on his wrists. "They can do a better job than me. You can stay in that hospital for months if it means you won't try to kill yourself Sherlock Holmes!"

He flinches, his voice becoming small. "I wasn't trying to kill myself. I was trying to distract myself."

"Distract yourself? From what, exactly!" Molly glares at him, but her eyes are still wet from tears. They run down her cheeks, marking her face with lines of anger and hurt.

"From another kind of pain." Sherlock says, looking down at the floor. "Tomorrow is the start of a new year. Why is it that time still goes on, even when someones gone?"

Molly's anger disperses, leaving another feeling in its place. Devastation. Her gaze softens as she watches the consulting detective cry; a genius, who can't fathom why he's still moving when his friend is not.

"Oh Sherlock," she whispers, releasing her grip on his arms and pulling his head onto her shoulder. His body shakes with sobs as both sit there, weeping for very different reasons.

Molly opens the door to Lestrade who holds out a bag of bandages and other supplies. Molly had called him, asking him to buy some bandages and ask one of her friends at the hospital for some meds and creams. He doesn't come in, but he glances inside the house. "Is he...?"

"He's in the bathroom. Thanks, I'll pay you back for the bandages."

She goes to close the door when Lestrade stops her. "Molly. You can't do this on your own-"

"Yes, I can. We're ok- it's just a small hiccup."

"Small? He's bleeding all over the bathroom floor!" Lestrade sighs. "I thought you said he was happy-"

"He was!" She leans against the door frame, eyes closed. "We were happy. Very happy. It's just... he's struggling with the whole new year thing." She sighs. "We're fine."

She slams the door in his face.

When she re-enters the bathroom, she carries a bowl of water, a cloth, creams, bandages and an injection. He holds out the blood soaked towel for her to take, and she puts it behind her. Holding his hands she gently wipes away the blood, cleaning out the deep gashes. When they are clean, she takes a needle and begins to sew up the wounds.

He watches her work, fascinated by her resolve and rhythm as she pulls the needle in and out. Her tears had long dried, and she seems totally absorbed in what she's doing. No, not absorbed- that's the wrong word. Determined. There was a steely look of concentration on her face.

She finishes with the stitches and pulls out the injection. "This should help with the pain. Oh, and it should assist in generating new blood cells, including fibrinogen to-"

"Help cover the wound. A scab." He smiles at her. "I'm a graduate in chemistry, you know."

"Of course," she says, smiling weakly. She pushes the needle into the crook of his arm, and he sucks in a breath as she pushes down on the plunger. She then pulls out an antiseptic cream to coat the cuts before tightly wrapping his wrists in the bandages.

"Molly," he says as she starts to pack away the stuff, "I'm sorry."

"I know." She gathers up the supplies, tucking them under her arm. She walks out of the room, leaving Sherlock to sit on the tiled floor.

He looks down at the white floor, now slick with his blood. Wincing, he reaches over for the bloodied towel, using it to mop up the crimson mess. Molly walks back in, and watches him, confused.

"What are you doing?"

"Cleaning up."

"I don't think that's going to help." She takes the towel from him. "We'll do it later. Can you stand?"

"I think so." He grips onto Molly's arm as he stands, paling even further- if that's even possible. They slowly walk to the front room, Sherlock relying totally on Molly as they shuffle down the hall. He feels that nowadays all he ever does is rely on Molly, and it sickens him to think about how much he has used her.

She settles him on the sofa, and before she can get up again he pulls her closer to him, their lips colliding in a rush of need and relief. She resists him at first, but then sinks into his soft embrace, giving in. Tears pour down both their faces, mixing so that each become one. They taste the salt on their tongues as they deepen the kiss, their need for each other growing. When they break apart, they are gasping for breath; but they are hungry for more despite their need for air. Sherlock is about to lean in again when Molly stops him, climbing up from the sofa. She disappears, returning with the blood-soaked towel. She dumps it on the floor by his feet, and he stares at it shamefully while she lights the fire. She picks it up, balls it up in her arms, and throws it into the flames.

Both watch as the fire consumes the last evidence of his 'hiccup', as Molly had called it. She checks the time. Half twelve. They were supposed to be attending a New Years party at six, but Molly didn't think they should go anymore. She picks up her phone, preparing to call Angelo and cancel, but Sherlock puts his hand on hers. Taking the phone from her, he sets it aside, pulling her down and twisting so that they both lie on the sofa, her head resting on his chest, just over his heart.

Molly wakes up alone again. Except this time, she panics.

"Sherlock! Where are- oh!" She rolls off the sofa, landing hard on her side. "Argh, Jesus." Strong hands lift her back up, and she's never been more relieved to see his icy blue eyes stare back at her. "Oh, there you are."

"Sorry, I just went to get something to eat. You said... I should eat lots of sugar."

Molly nods, and he shows her the muffin he's holding. He breaks a bit off for her, and they both nibble at it.

"So where do you want to go tonight?" Sherlock says, picking another bit off his blueberry muffin. Molly looks at him, confused.

"What do you mean? I got the impression we weren't going anywhere."

"It's New Years Eve, Molly Hooper," Sherlock says with a knowing smirk. He looks like himself again, but as he lifts another bit of muffin to his lips, she sees the bandages on his wrists; there was no way they were going out tonight.

"No. I don't care what day it is. We, and more specifically _you_, are going nowhere."

She watches as his eyes fall and he sticks out his lower lip. She punches him gently on the shoulder. "Don't do that. You aren't in any state-"

"Well then I guess I'll have to cancel our tickets to France then."

Molly's mouth drops. "Fr-France?"

"Yes. I bought two tickets for the Eurotunnel."

"When?!" She stares at him, bewildered.

"Just now." He smiles at her, his eyes begging for her approval. He'd ruined the day with his... episode, and he wanted to make it up to her. Yes, he was a little unsteady on his feet, and he didn't quite look his best...

"But Sherlock..." Molly sighs, her hands falling into her lap. "You aren't well."

"I'm fine Molly. Really and truly. Please don't do this- we were having so much fun! Don't look at me like you need to fix me or something. We were happy." Sherlock pulls down the sleeves of his shirt to cover the bandages.

"Happy? Are you sure?" Molly says, crossing her arms. "I mean, I know _I _was happy, but you?"

Sherlock stares at her, his eyes cold and empty. "Yes. I was." He gets up and strides out of the room, leaving Molly to sit on the sofa, a volume of empty air hanging in front of her.

"Sherlock? Open the door." Molly leans against the door frame, gently tapping on the wood. "I'm sorry ok? I'm just worried about you. We can still go to France."

The door swings open and before Molly knows whats going on she's against the wall, his hands running through her hair and his lips pressed against hers. She relaxes into him, glancing down at the secure bandages on his wrists and silently thanking God that he wasn't in there cutting. They break apart, Sherlock leaning his forehead against hers.

"Thank you. Thank you Molly."

She smiles at him, her hair falling away from her face as she leans back. "When's the train?"

"In a couple hours." He ducks into his bedroom, pulling out an overnight bag. "If we're quick, we'll make it."

"I'll grab my stuff. Sherlock?"

He turns to face her, a grin trying to push its way onto his face. "Yes?"

Molly winks at him. "We're going to France!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11- Bordeaux**

"Come on Molly! We're going to miss it!"

Sherlock's coat flaps behind him as he runs through the station, his bag over his shoulder. Molly has no idea how he has the energy for this- she was out of breath and she wasn't the one missing a pint of blood.

He turns back to look at her again, a stupid grin threatening to break his face in two. "You look excited," she says, laughing.

"Yes! But we need to hurry! Quick!" He reaches back and takes her hand, dragging her behind him. Her bags hit the back of her legs, and she tries to hike them further up her arm. Sherlock glances up at the message boards. "That one! It's leaving in a few minutes. Let's go!"

After an array of barriers and people asking for authentication, they finally make it onto the train. Most people are in cars at this time of day, but not this crazy duo- a trip to France on New Years Eve!

"I hope we make it before midnight," Sherlock says, glancing down at a breathless Molly. She pulls her hair back from her face in an elastic band, leaving a few strands loose. She goes to brush them behind her ears but he reaches out and pulls them back in front of her face, smiling at her. "It would be a shame to miss the fireworks."

"If you don't mind me asking," she says, her eyes searching his, "where exactly are we going?"

"Bordeaux." Although he says it in his deep British accent, the French word twists it to make it sound even lovelier. Molly leans into him, grateful that he is hers, and she is his.

"Bordeaux sounds wonderful. I've heard it's even more beautiful at night."

"I've heard that too." He strokes her cheek, before cupping her face in his hand. "But if that's not true, then I've got something much more beautiful anyway."

"You know, I love it when you deduce. When your voice rushes over the words, insanely fast and absolutely mesmorising. But when you say things like that to me..." Molly sinks into his palm, sighing. "Sherlock Holmes, my heart melts."

"Well, it's nice to know I have that effect on someone. However, I would advise you see a doctor about that melted heart."

She slaps his arm. "Shh, you. You're ruining the moment."

As they step off the train into Bordeaux, the sharp winter air greets them. It's cool in a comforting way, like on a Saturday night when you're walking home from a party with friends. You've just escaped a stuffy room, and you feel the stars on your back as you stroll over the cobblestones.

They leave the station with their arms wrapped around each other, laughing as they blow steam out of their mouths and noses. Stopping under a street light, Sherlock watches as it's glow casts an angelic light over Molly. "So where to, Mr Holmes?"

"Wherever you wish, Miss Hooper." He smiles down at her, and she reaches up to kiss him. The kiss is brief, but a thousand words and declarations pass between their lips.

"Anywhere," she breathes, eyes closed. "Anywhere with you." When she opens her eyes, she goes pink. "Oh wow. That was embarassing."

"Really? I found it quite flattering." Both laugh, and Molly links arms with him. "Shall we find a nice vantage point for the fireworks?"

"Sounds like a plan." They both turn to leave their little cone of light, but Molly pulls him back. "Wait," she says, reaching round his neck. Slowly, she turns his coat collar up. "There. Ok, now let's go."

They leave the warm safety of the light behind, Sherlock's collar shadowing his face and emphasising the brightness of his eyes. His bright, bright eyes.

Molly takes a swig from the bottle of champagne that Sherlock had bought from one of the little stores below them. They sit on a little picnic blanket, watching the city throb with a gorgeous yellow glow, the world laid out before them as they sit on their little hill.

"Not sure this is how you're supposed to drink champagne," Molly says, giggling. "Not that it tastes any different though."

She hands the bottle to Sherlock, who brings it to his lips, sipping. "Nothing beats French champagne. Even if we are lacking the proper dinnerware."

"Dinnerware is such a stupid word," she says, sighing. Frowning at her comment, she refuses anymore champagne, deciding she's had enough alcohol for the evening.

Sherlock checks his watch. Three minutes to midnight. He shuffles closer to Molly, taking another blanket from his bag and throwing it over their shoulders. She leans into him, sleepy.

"Three minutes until midnight. Try to stay awake 'til then." He nudges her, and she nods, smiling. She keeps her eyes open, waiting for the display.

And it's beautiful. The firecrackers compete with the stars, shining bright and illuminating the town below. Pink, blue, and gold showers them, popping in their ears, heightening their senses. Cheers resound below them as more glittering flames are thrown into the sky. "Happy New Year Molly," Sherlock says, kissing her softly. She looks up at him, and watches the reflection of the fireworks burst in his eyes before falling asleep.

Sherlock sets her down gently on the bed, having carried her to the nearest bed and breakfast. She sighs, sinking into the frilled pillow. He gently pulls off her jacket, before tucking the blankets around her. Her eyes flutter open, but its not long before they drift shut again.

Sherlock strips, quickly dressing in his p-jamas. He slides into bed, turning so that he can fall asleep to the sound of her breath against the pillow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12- Better**

In the week that passed since their spontaneous visit to Bordeaux, there had been no more 'hiccups'. Molly had gone back to work, but only for four days a week, spending the rest of her time with Sherlock. Well, he visits her at work all the time anyway, so you could say she spends _all _her time with Sherlock.

She'd sit on a stool in the lab, next to a body she'd just examined, trying to do some paperwork. She'd scrawl down figures and measurments on her clipboard, but she couldn't help glancing up at the gorgeous figure sitting across from her every now and then. He'd stare at her from across the sheeted corpse, bright eyes blazing like meteors. He'd never say anything, but Molly would chuck her pen at him anyway, telling him to stop distracting her. It made him laugh to see the pure frustration on her face.

Every once in a while Sherlock would be given a case. He'd asked Lestrade if he could start off smaller, not sure if he was quite ready to get into the full throes of the chase. He couldn't fathom how he was to solve such cases without his trusty blogger- it physically hurt him to think about it.

So Sherlock would sit with Molly in the morgue, doing his low level police work, while she tried not to get lost in the perfection of his prescence. Days were light and free from drama, and they'd never been happier.

Leaving Sherlock in bed, Molly makes her way to the kitchen, heating some water in the kettle and searching the cupboards for tea bags. She's about to put one into a mug, when a wave of nausea hits her.

"Oh God," she says, stumbling to the bathroom with her hands over her mouth. She makes it just in time, leaning over the toilet and vomiting.

Not soon after, she feels her hair being pulled back by pleasantly cool hands. She looks over her shoulder at Sherlock, who's face is one of concern. He rubs her back while she breathes deeply, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Running a flannel under some cold water, he wipes away the sheen of sweat on her forehead, not taking his eyes of her for one second. She notices them flitting over her, and she realises he's assessing her, attempting to evaluate her physical condition. She puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. It's probably just a bug, or something I've eaten that's disagreed with me."

"Yes. Well, whatever it is, you are not to lift a finger, Molly Hooper. You are sick and I will care for you." He turns the flannel over so the cooler side is against her forehead. She smiles at him.

"I'm feeling much better already," she says, leaning into the flannel. He helps her to her feet and walks her to the sofa, where she sits with a stupid smile on her face as he goes to grab a bowl.

"What are you smiling about?" He says, putting the bowl down next to her. Her grin widens.

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You are just too adorable when you go into..." She motions with her hands, shaking her head. "... Doctor Sherlock mode."

He smiles at her, but his eyes are still filled with worry. "Maybe we should call a real doctor..."

"Don't be silly Sherlock. It's just a bug or something! Lots of fluids, no food, and I should be fine." She frowns. "Damn."

"What is it?" He instinctively reaches for the bowl, but she waves it away. "What?"

"I shouldn't have told you no food. I'm starving."

Sherlock laughs, sitting down next to her and pulling her into his arms. "We'll give you a couple hours and see how it goes." He hands her the remote. "Put what you like on, I'm going to get you some water."

Molly switches on the tv and flicks through the channels until she finds something vaguely interesting. Not that it made a difference, for when Sherlock returned the tv dulled to mere background noise.

He hands her the water and she takes it gratefully, gulping it down to get rid of the awful taste in her mouth. She puts it on the table beside her, and then turns back to Sherlock. He looks at her, worry still clouding his eyes, and then ducks in quickly, pecking her on the lips.

"Sherlock!" She gasps, tutting at him. "I don't want you to catch anything! Plus, my breath...!" She brings her hands to her mouth, embarassed.

"I don't care." He smirks at her. "As long as you get better."

A few hours later, Molly leans back on the sofa, groaning. "Sherlock! I'm starving- let me have some fooood!" Twisting her head, she glares at him. "I'm going to die if I don't eat soon."

"Die? That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" He flinches slightly when she shoots him a dirty look, but it doesn't erase the small smile playing on his lips.

"Not funny. Nope," she says, crossing her arms, "I am not amused."

"Ok, I'm sorry. You can have some toast in half an hour."

"Half an hour!" She picks up a pillow and throws it at him. Chuckling, he holds up his arms to protect himself. "Sherlock Holmes, if I can't have some food, I will eat _you_!"

He shies away from her, mock fear on his face. "Don't! I will not be very appealing!" She gnashes her teeth at him, growling. "Fine! I'll make it now!"

He jumps up from the sofa, silently laughing. "Sure you don't want me to make it?" She starts to get up, but Sherlock throws out his arm, directing her back to the sofa.

"No. Sit back down."

"But you burnt it last ti-"

"Sit! Now!" She collapses back onto the sofa, sticking her tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes. He carefully sets the timer as to be sure he won't burn the place down, and then leans back on the counter, waiting. He tilts his head, glancing at Molly, who seems to be combing her hair with her fingers, biting her lip. She doesn't notice him looking, and he smiles at the fact she sits cross-legged, eyes innocently wide as she stares into space.

Catching the toast as it flies out of the toaster, he notices that it's not burnt, which is a start. Pleased with himself, he carries the toast over to her on a plate. She looks at it in disgust.

"Dry toast?" She whines, and he turns away from her, trying not to laugh.

"Well, if you can keep that down for an hour, you can have buttered toast." His voice breaks as he finishes the sentence, and his whole body shakes with laughter.

She punches him in the arm before picking up her toast and taking an angry bite from it. He rubs his shoulder, feigning pain. "Well, glad to see you're feeling better."

It's about five in the morning when Molly rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom again. Sherlock lifts his head, groggy. He's still looking at the empty bed she had left, confused, when he hears her retching in the bathroom. Suddenly alert and panicking, he jumps up and runs after her.

"Molly?"

She leans over the toilet again, gasping and cursing. _What the hell is going on? She was fine earlier!_

She had even had dinner, after showering and dressing. They had decided it was something she ate, and then forgot about it. She closes her eyes, sinking into his arms as he holds her from behind. His legs are on either side of her as they sit in silence, her breathing in and out as he strokes her hair.

When it passes, she feels fine again. Hungry, even. She shakes her head confused.

"What?" Sherlock helps her up as she reaches for her toothbrush, scrubbing away so that she can clean her mouth. He waits for her to finish, still sitting on the floor. She spits, wipes her mouth, and then turns to him.

"I don't know, it's weird." She sits back in his lap, staying close to the toilet, even though she felt perfectly okay.

"Maybe we should call a doctor." He looks her straight in the eye, his gaze deep and concerned. "You're not well, and I don't think this is a bug."

"No, I don't think..." She sighs, matching his gaze. "I don't know. It's strange because, well... I feel fine. Now. Hungry, actually." Biting her lip, she looks down at her hands. "That's not normal, is it? To throw up and feel fine, and then throw up again the next morning?"

He shakes his head, strangley bewildered. "No, I don't th-" he suddenly stops, whatever he was about to say lost. He stares at her, but not _quite_ at her; his eyes look somewhere just off her face, somewhere behind her. His mouth drops slightly and she watches as something dawns on him. This newfound knowledge fascinates him for a while, before that fascination is replaced with a kind of fear.

"Sherlock? What is it?" Molly touches his arm, but he doesn't hear her, or notice her soft touch. He continues to stare ahead, his piercing blue eyes widening. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Sherlock, you're scaring me."

His head snaps back to look at her. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He seems to be having some sort of internal struggle, unable to find the right words. Her forehead creases with worry, terrified at the notion that it could be something absolutley awful.

"Molly..." He finally manages, his expression still nervous. "I think..." He chews on the inside of his lip, unsure how to say it.

"Yes? Just tell me." She braces herself for what he's about to say. Had he somehow diagnosed her with a terrible illness? Why did he look so scared?

"I think... I think you should take a pregnancy test."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13- Baby**

Molly jumps up, staring at Sherlock. He also slowly climbs to his feet, and they stare at each, a reflection of each others fear.

"Oh my God," she says, bringing her hands up on either side of her head, "Oh my God oh my God oh my God!"

"Calm dow-"

"Calm down! Don't tell me to calm down!" She steps backwards, bumping into the sink. Turning, she looks in the mirror. Her hands jump to her abdomen, and she pushes down on it.

"There won't be any signs there ye-"

"SHUT UP!" She screams, tears in her eyes. "What the f-" she takes a deep breath, calming herself. "What the _hell _are we gonna do."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. She stares hard at him, but Sherlock is at a loss for words. Never did he think he would find himself in this situation. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, like a fish. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he slowly approaches her.

"We don't know if you are yet. Let's just calm down, get ready and get a test from the store." There. That seemed like the logical next step.

She nods, eyes closed. "I'll just..." She motions to the shower next to her. "Shower."

"Ok." He leaves her in the bathroom, sprinting to the bedroom and slamming the door behind him. Once he's safely inside it's walls, he starts to panic.

_Why the hell did they not use protection?_ He swears, kicking the bed. He can't be a father. He can't. He takes a deep breath. _We don't know if she's pregnant yet. We don't know._

But all the signs are there. The morning sickness, the hunger and cravings- even the mood swings that Sherlock had noticed the past few days. And he'd been blind. He'd ignored the signs because he was too lost in his own happiness, too selfish to acknowledge something right in front of him because he knew it would shatter the illusion that everything was ok now.

But it's not. And now Molly is going to have one of the hardest decisions ahead of her, and although Sherlock didn't want it, didn't want the baby, it was Molly's choice.

He mentally slaps himself, concentrating on slowing his mind down. His thoughts were going off in all directions, contemplating all scenarios and possibilities. Collapsing on the bed, he rubs his hands down his face, trying to put a spanner in the works of his brain.

Molly pulls on the first thing she can find, and jumps when she sees Sherlock standing at the door. He watches her, concerned. Smiling at him, she attempts to ease his worry- she could tell he was absolutely petrified.

"You ready?"

"Yes. Let me just grab my purse." Her loose hair falls over her face as she searches the floor for her bag. He takes her hand.

"I'll pay for it, don't worry." She nods, and walks with him out of 221B, her gaze on her feet the whole way. She hears him call a cab, and looks up quickly when he opens the door for her. Mumbling a thanks, she climbs inside.

"Molly," Sherlock say, putting his hand on her knee, "It's going to be alright. Even if you are, there are lots of options-"

"I know, Sherlock," she says, her tone tight and annoyed. "I work at a hospital, remember? I know about the options." She turns away from him, and hurt fills his eyes. _Why is she angry at me? _He pushes the feeling away, staring straight ahead.

When they reach the chemist, they approach the desk and request a clear blue pregnancy test. The woman smiles up at them.

"A baby on the way? How exciting!" There's lipstick on her teeth, but no ones pointed it out to her. _Unhappy marriage. Husband cheating on her._

"We don't know that yet," Sherlock says coldly, pushing some money onto the counter. She ignores his tone.

"Been trying for your first then? You're new to this, I can tell." She taps a few things into the till, taking the money. "I hope it's positive! Have a nursery yet?"

"The test. Please." He holds out his hand, teeth gritted. The smile falls from her face as she looks at Molly, who's gaze is equally empty. She hands them the test. "Thank you. Oh, and if you go home right now, you'll catch them at it."

He turns abruptly and walks away with his arm around Molly's shoulders. "God, she was annoying."

"What did you mean, catch them at it?" She glances over her shoulder and watches as the woman stares blankly, hand still outstretched from when she gave the test to them.

"Her husband. He's cheating on her."

Molly snorts. "Sorry, but..." She looks up at him, smiling. "Her face...!"

"I feel sorry for her, the poor girl. Now no one will ever tell her that she really wears too much eye shadow."

Molly bursts out laughing, and he smiles. It was nice to see her frown disappear for a bit. They climb back into the cab, discussing what position the clerk was going to find her husband in when she got home.

Sherlock waits outside the bathroom while Molly takes the test. He leans against the wall, eyes closed, hands fists in his pockets. Five minutes pass before he hears a small cry from inside the bathroom.

The door swings open, and a distressed Molly thrusts out the stick. Sherlock takes it, and sighs.

_Postive. 1-2 weeks._

"Must be from... Boxing Day." He shakes his head, his hand dropping to his side. He looks at Molly, who's eyes are glassy. She chews on her bottom lip, staring into space. "I'm sorry but, I don't know what to say in these situations."

She meets his gaze. "I love you Sherlock. I really do. But it's only been two weeks..." She takes a deep breath. "It was stupid of us not to use protection. We should know better. But now we're going to have to live with the consequences."

His eyes widen. "You're... you're going to keep it?"

"Yes. I can't kill it!"

"But it's only a mass of cells, no nerve endings, so it won't matter. It hasn't even developed-"

"Don't." She puts a finger on his lips. "I don't care that it's just a mass of cells. And it will matter. Because this is our baby, not just any old zygote."

His gaze softens at the words 'our baby'. He can't believe he's doing this.

"Well. Our foetus."

"Baby!" She shouts, glaring at him. "Say it!"

"Baby. Our baby." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Sherlock, I know this is scary for you. Heck, I feel like I might scream in terror any second." She laughs weakly. Gulping, she squeezes his arm. "But we can get through this. And I'm sure you'll be a great-"

"Don't you dare say it," he pulls away from her, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut. He looks like he's in physical pain. "Don't lie to me. I will never be a good father. And anyone who fools themselves into thinking I will be, obviously doesn't know me at all."

Molly flinches, and looks down at the floor. "I know you." She crosses her arms, but lower, as if it is instinct for her to protect her abdomen. "And I know that you probably won't be the best father. Not at first." She steps in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "But you will learn."

After a few minutes, he meets her gaze. His blue eyes look like the sea after a storm, deep and dark, but shining. He pulls her into an embrace and they stand in the hall, arms wrapped around each other. She sinks into him, letting his arms enfold her, protecting her from anything and anyone that dares come near.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14- Bust**

Molly walks out of her bosses office, having told him of her physical condition. He had nodded, offered to reduce her hours but not her income and asked her when she'd like to go on maternity leave.

"At six months, the start of my third trimester," she'd said.

She's about to make her way back down to the morgue, but Lestrade stands in her way. She jumps, her hand over chest. "Jesus Greg I didn't see you there!" She fans herself. Apologising, he points to the office.

"I needed to see you and one of your co-workers said you were up here. What did you need to see your boss about?"

Molly struggles to come up with an excuse. "I... I just um... Paperwork!" She forces a laugh. "You know how it is."

Lestrade narrows his eyes. "Came across Sherlock earlier. Seemed like there was something edgy about him." He puts his hands on his hips, leaning back. "Sure you two are ok?"

"Of course!" She says with a little too much enthusiasm. Pushing past Lestrade, she opens the door to the stairway. "We're fine! Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Oh, that," Lestrade says, vowing to investigate it later. "Let's talk down in the morgue." He watches her as they descend the stairs, and she grips the banister tightly, as if scared she'll fall. There was something up- his gut knew it. His 'chief-of-police' gut, as he liked to call it. These two were going to get themselves in trouble, if they hadn't already. And he was going to find out what was going on.

"Anderson, you got the paperwork on that suicide pact case?" Lestrade calls out to him as he passes the office. Anderson pokes his head through, frowning.

"Why would I have it? I'm forensics."

"Yeah, well can you tell me where Sally is then?"

"Here!" Donavan breezes into the room, dumping the paperwork on his desk. Her frizzy hair is askew, and her shirt crumpled. Lestrade watches as several furtive glances pass between the two.

"Oh for the love of..." Lestrade crinkles his nose in disgust. "You two were at it in the room next door again, weren't you?"

Donavan goes red as Anderson shouts "No! No, of course not!" over and over. Lestrade rolls his eyes, picking up a pen.

"Right, well, seeing as I said no sex at work, punishment is in order, isn't it?" Anderson groans but Donavan just looks down and straightens out her shirt. "Need your help for something with Sherlock. Actually, Sherlock _and _Molly."

Both didn't seem surprised upon hearing Sherlock's name but when Molly was mentioned, they looked at each other, confused. "Molly? You mean, Molly as in little sweet pathologist Molly? What she doing with-"

"They're together, alright?" Both of their jaws drop. Donavan laughs.

"_Sherlock's banging Molly Hooper?_" She scoffs. "Well. Well well well."

"You, shut it. And you-" he points at Anderson. "Search Sherlock's apartment. You have two hours before he gets back from the morgue."

Anderson nods, delighted with his mission. "Another drugs bust? Count me in."

"No, not a drugs bust. Just a... I-don't-know-what bust." Lestrade waves him off. "See who you can get interested."

Anderson leaves with a stupid grin on his face, yelling to the whole floor that they're searching Sherlock's flat. He leaves with a rather large party of people.

"Right, Sally." Lestrade puts his hands on the desk. "Need a second opinion. Go to Bart's, to get notes on a body or something. Make up an excuse." She nods. "Just talk to them about how their relationships going. Don't worry, I'll take the fall for telling you. But let me know what you think- they're acting strange, see if you get any idea about what's going on."

She leaves, grabbing a clipboard and any old file on her way out. Lestrade sighs, leaning back in his chair. He had some filing to do for now, but he'd join them later.

Sherlock talks to Molly in a hushed voice. "We might have to move out, get a bigger place. Wait- maybe not." Sherlock gulps. "There is John's room, but-"

He's interrupted as Donavan walks through the door, staring hard at a clipboard. Molly jumps up in surprise, forcing a smile. Sherlock moves with her, standing directly behind her, a deadpan look on his face.

"Donavan." He acknowledges her with a small nod. She smirks.

"Freak." She walks round the table, stopping in front of Molly. She notices Sherlock tense up.

"Hi Sally!" Molly says with a small wave. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Lestrade wants me to take one more look at the notes for the suicide pact case." Sherlock frowns. _That case was closed yesterday._

"Oh, of course! I'll just go dig them out." Donavan notices her hands shaking as she moves past Sherlock to some filing cabinets. She flips open the file on her clipboard, pretending to read over the police notes. It wasn't even the right file- something about petty theft.

"So..." She looks up at Sherlock, who seems to be staring intently at Molly. "How's your relationship with Molly?"

His head snaps round to look at her. "Who told you-"

"Lestrade." She holds the clipboard closer to her, so that Sherlock can't see the wrong file. "How's it going?"

"Fine." He says it a little too quickly. "We're fine," he adds, loosening up when he notices Donavan watching him. _She's not here for the bodies. Lestrade suspects something..._

"Here they are!" Molly exclaims from the corner of the room, holding up some papers. She walks back over to them and hands her the notes. "So, what are you two talking about?"

"Nothing."

"Your relationship."

They say it at the same time, and Molly's face drains of colour. "Oh? So you know about that then?" She says in a small voice. Sherlock wraps his arms around her protectively.

"You've got the notes. You can go now."

Donavan makes a face, then turns to leave. There was definitely something up. Sherlock is usually always hostile towards her- for obvious reasons- but now he seemed almost... angry. As if by talking to Molly, she was hurting them.

Once she's out in the corridor, she pulls out her phone. "Yeah, you were right," she says as soon as Lestrade picks up. "There's something wrong."

"So guys, we're not actually looking for anything in particular," Anderson says to his team, who are talking amongst themselves. "Just search through everything, and if you find any..." He waves his arms. "... recreational drugs, experiments, or even gossip... anything worthy really, let me know. Start anywhere, I'm taking the bathroom."

The crowd disperses as they start to filter through the house. Anderson walks down the corridor to the bathroom, where he starts at the medical cupboard.

_Nothing in here that's not expected, _he thinks, pulling out cough syrup, lozenges, and antacids. He pops the lids of everything open and takes a look or a whiff, just to make sure they're not storing anything else. Satisfied, he moves down to under the sink, where a lone bottle of bleach sits.

As he moves nearer to the toilet, he's hit with a nasty smell. Vomit? Someone's vomited in here recently? No, not just vomit, vomit and bleach. Someones been unwell, and then tried to clean it up. Sherlock? Molly?

He takes a sample of the toilet water, wrinkling his nose. Tucking the tube and pipette in his bag, he moves to the bin, rummaging through quickly. He's about to move on when he notices something.

_Oh my God._

He pulls out a clear blue pregnancy test packet, mouth agape. He didn't know where the actual stick was, but it was evident that someone had used one.

He jogs back to the rest of the group.

"Ok, listen up!" They all turn and look at him. "We're looking for a clear blue pregnancy test!" He holds up the packet. "We want the stick, see if you can find it!"

He goes back to the bathroom, searching everywhere. Around ten minutes later, someone yells from the bedroom.

"Here! They stashed it in a plastic bag under the bed!"

Anderson rushes over, taking it from a small woman, whose shirt is too big for her. Tentatively, he turns it so the results face him.

Gasping, he tucks it in his pocket, dialing Lestrade's number. "I'm coming back. Got something to show you."

Sherlock bursts through the door, storming into his flat. "Someone's been here, I can tell." He says instantly, his lips curling in a snarl. Molly rushes to his side, trying to calm him. "He's had the flat searched!" Sherlock kicks a chair. "Can we just once have some PRIVACY!"

Mrs Hudson rushes upstairs wondering what all the commotion's about. "Mrs Hudson, just the lady I wanted to see," he says, turning to look at her. "Did a team of police come in on a 'bust'?"

"Yes, they said it was a drugs bust. I thought it was something to get your attention again."

"When did they leave?" He takes a step closer to her, his face expectant. The landlady bites her lip.

"About ten minutes ago. They seemed pretty pleased with themselves too!" She tuts, shaking her head. "Awful people, why what did they come f-"

Sherlock interrupts her by swearing loudly. She jumps, muttering "language!" on her way back downstairs. Molly takes his hands, soothing him. "What did they come for Sherlock?"

"Well, I'm pretty certain they had no clue what they came for when they arrived. But they sure as hell knew when they left." Molly looks at him, confused. He releases one of his hands from her grasp and takes her with him to the bedroom. It suddenly dawns on her when she watches him kneel down by the bed.

"The test..." She breathes, eyes wide. "They came for the test! That bast-"

Sherlock shushes her as he pulls out the bag. Hatred in his eyes, he shows her the empty contents. "They've taken it."

"Right!" With tears in her eyes, she takes out her phone. "I am calling that son of a bitch right now- hey!"

Sherlock snatches the phone from her, switching it off and putting it in his pocket. "No. Mrs Hudson said they left ten minutes ago- they've probably just arrived at Scotland Yard." He closes his eyes, thinking. "If we're quick, they'll have finished _discussing-" _he spits the word "- what they've found when we arrive." He takes her arm, leading her out of the flat. "We're not just gonna call them. Oh no. Let's have a proper word with them."

Lestrade holds the pregnancy test in his hands, not hearing what the others are saying to him. They all seem pretty animated, "Molly pregnant!" and "Sherlock Holmes- you naughty boy!" rings through the air. But Lestrade hears none of it. He just stares at the word 'positive', lost for words.

Outside, Sherlock approaches the office. "Stay here," he says to Molly, "I'll call you when you can come in."

"Why can't I come in now?" She takes a step with him, but he shakes his head.

"Just trust me." And he strides over, swinging the door open.

Lestrade looks up at Sherlock as he storms into the room. "Hello, Greg," he says in what seems like a calm tone, but hatred runs through each syllable. _The one time he remembers my name..._

Lestrade stands, hands up. Big mistake. He still holds the pregnancy test in his right hand. He starts to explain, but Sherlock interrupts him.

"See you've found what you wanted," he says, pointing to the stick. "But you're missing something. Here, let me help you-" he takes a step closer and throws his fist at Lestrade, clipping him on the cheek and sending him crashing back into his chair. He looks up at the towering figure, dazed. "You had no right," Sherlock hisses as Molly runs into the room, eyes wide upon coming across the scene, "You had no right to go in there and search through my stuff! Did you ever think for just one second that what was going on between Molly and I, we wanted to _stay _between Molly and I?"

"Sherlock," Molly comes up behind him, her hand on his shoulder. He nods, taking a step back. She then turns to Lestrade, who sits in his chair, bleeding.

Her eyes are filled with disappointment as she starts to speak. This makes his stomach turn more than Sherlock's livid expression had.

"You know, it's bad enough that you blabbed about our relationship to everyone here." She shrugs her shoulders, looking along her nose at him, unimpressed. "But to then send your..." She purses her lips like something sour is on her tongue, "... _team of invalids _out to our flat in search of something worthy to gossip about?" She shakes her head. Lestrade opens his mouth to say something, but then decides against it, certain that anything he says can and will be used against him. Which is a funny position for the chief of police to be in, quite honestly.

"Shame on you, Lestrade. Just..." She breathes out, letting her hands drop by her sides. "Shame on you." She turns to leave, but she sees Anderson, who looks pathetic as he stands there, quivering. Following his gaze she sees Sherlock, who is pinning him to the wall with his icy stare. Molly leans up and whispers something in his ear. Sherlock nods, turns back to Anderson, and kicks him in the balls.

She takes his arm and leads Sherlock out of the office, leaving behind a room full of stunned officers, and a wimpering Anderson.


End file.
